


Crescent Variation

by tisfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Yoga, Chair Sex, Dating, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Texting, Yoga Instructor Bucky Barnes, former ballet dancer Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Steve Rogers is not the ideal candidate for a clinical trial for new asthma medication, but his doctor thinks if he can just gain about twenty pounds or so, they can sneak him in for an experiment that might change his life.Enter Bucky Barnes, yoga instructor and life-coach, who finds himself falling in love with his skinny, stubborn client.





	Crescent Variation

“I imagine that’s not something you say to people very often, Dr. Erskine,” Steve said. He twisted the edge of the paper hospital gown in his fingers; he was going to tear it if he wasn’t careful. It always bothered him, a bit, that proper etiquette was to call the doctor by his title, and yet Erskine called him Steven. It was even weirder to be called _Steven_ by someone when he was naked underneath a paper tarp.

Dr. Erskine gave him a wry grin. “No, I’m afraid it is not,” he said. “Certainly not so bluntly. I have had patients that are underweight before, even as underweight as you are, but many of them are both female and have done it to themselves. When we are speaking of eating disorders, a physician must tread lightly.”

But of course Erskine didn’t have to tread lightly with Steve. Doctors tended to treat Steve with a little more cavalier attitude; his mother was a nurse and he’d been in the care of literally dozens of doctors, his whole life. That his life was even as long as it had been was something of a miracle.

It was still _his life,_ however, and Steve was feeling a little tender around the edges. “So, how much weight do you want me to gain?”

“Look, Steven,” Erskine said, “you’re not the ideal candidate for this study. In addition to being underweight, you have poor bone density, anemia, stomach ulcers, and a heart condition.”

Like Steve didn’t know all this already. “Your point being?”

“When pharmaceutical companies are testing new drugs, they like the patients to be perfectly healthy -- except for the condition that they are specifically treating. Cutting down on the variables. Also, it cuts the risks for them; if the medication helps your breathing, but has a side effect of heart trouble, you’re at a higher risk,” Erskine explained.

“Does the medication cause heart trouble?”

“Not that they discovered in animal trials,” Erskine said, “but that does not mean a lot. Breathing on a white rat can give it cancer, so animal trials…” He waved a hand. “But, and here’s the important thing. This drug, it is not a daily medication. It is a series of subcutaneous injections, for a period of ten weeks. Trials thus far have been very encouraging, leading to almost complete restoration of lung function. Initial studies, eighty percent of patients have been able to totally cease using rescue inhalers, and many have been able to stop using inhaled steroids and other long-term controls.”

“Which could be good for me, because the --”

“Your other medications are slowly deteriorating your liver,” Erskine completed.

They’d gone over this a few times, it never got any easier. In addition to not being a good candidate for medical trials, Steve was also not allowed on the organ recipient list; why waste a perfectly good liver on someone likely to die of a heart attack in the next three years?

“I have an in,” Erskine continued. “The researcher who’s running the trials, we are old friends. But I can only bend your file so much before it breaks. The weight, that is the most important thing. They will measure you at the clinic. So, you must weigh at least one hundred and twenty-five pounds. But you must consider it carefully; this could hasten your other medical problems.”

Steve just looked at him. He’d gone over it with specialists and general practitioners alike. If he lived to be thirty-five, it’d be a modern miracle. He was twenty-six now. Ten more years, at the very most, and probably less.

But he had no family -- his mother had died when he was seventeen, his father had been gone since Steve was three, he barely even remembered Joe Rogers. No siblings, not even any cousins. He had a job -- he taught art class at a local elementary school, spending his days surrounded by paint and chalk and third and fourth graders -- but even at work, he didn’t have many friends. No romantic partner, he’d gone on a few first dates, but no one ever went out with him a second time.

Quality of life; there was a concept.

Steve squared his jaw. “Tell me what to do.”

***

Steve really had no idea what to do in a gym. He’d never been in one before, aside from back in high school, where he’d gotten a medical excuse to be removed from the physical parts of class, but still had to have the slot open so the school could feed him all sorts of misinformation about sex education.

Not that his actual sexual education had come from anywhere except the internet.

He’d taken a few days to select carefully what gym he wanted to use; keeping Erskine’s recommendations in mind, he needed a place that was relaxed, had a variety of classes, and a juice bar. Technically, he could have gotten the protein shakes that his doctor recommended just about anywhere, but it seemed easier to combine one trip out of the house.

“Start small,” Steve told himself. One shake, one fifteen minute walk on the treadmill, and then go home.

The gym, on the other hand, had all sorts of paperwork to fill out, a joining fee, and a monthly fee, and then someone wanted to take him around and show him all the different features and options that their gym had. Like he hadn’t already just plonked down almost a hundred dollars and signed away half his disposable income.

But Steve supposed it was a good thing; if he was left to his own devices, all the machines and sign up sheets and classes and options might have terrified him into stillness and he would have done nothing but stand there, staring, until he fled for his apartment.

The woman who’d helped him with the paperwork and swiped his credit card showed him around the floor. “And anyone who’s wearing one of these shirts--” she indicated the baseball jersey tees with a red star on the silver sleeves like the one she wore, “--will be happy to show you the best way to use any of the machines. We offer a variety of classes from Calisthenics to Spin to Zumba to Yoga. Here’s our weight room; if you need a spotter, there’s a sign up sheet for times. Men’s locker room over there, and ladies on the other side. This way to the sauna, juice bar, and the pool. We also offer water aerobics classes.”

Like Steve was going to take his shirt off and swim with a bunch of other people. He barely refrained from crossing his arms over his chest. Even through the sweatshirt he was wearing, bulky as it was, he could feel his own ribs under his fingers.  

“Now, you haven’t said, Mr. Rogers,” she said, finally finished pointing out the amenities, “what it is you’re looking for in a gym. With your sign up fee comes three weeks of a personal trainer, available to you three times a week. If you find that your trainer is a benefit to you, you can continue the relationship per month, for an additional thirty dollars.”

Because of course, everything was an add-on. He’d gotten the silver level membership which included five visits to the juice-bar already. At least the classes were free to all members.

“Um, sure, that sounds good,” Steve said, not really knowing what he was agreeing to. What the hell was a personal trainer, anyway?

The woman consulted her tablet. “Oh, Coach Barnes has an opening on his schedule today, come on, I’ll introduce you, and you two can get started.”

Steve was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like anyone who went by Coach anything.

He followed her into one of the back areas; classrooms with glass walls lined the hall. Some of them were in session, sweaty people moving and working to muffled music. Others were empty, including something called Spin, whatever that was, that had a bunch of stationary bikes. All the way in the back was a classroom labeled Yoga and Meditation.

“Coach Barnes,” the woman said, sticking her head into the room. “I have a client for you.”

“Hmmm?”

The man was sitting alone in the middle of the classroom in a complicated stretch, legs spread, bare feet gripping the mat underneath him. He wore stretchy black pants made of soft-seeming material that clung to well-muscled legs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, so Steve wasn’t sure how he was supposed to identify the guy as being one of the staff, but his sleeve tat was distinctive. A red lotus flower, surrounded by mandala-style art. The coloring was incomplete and the black lines stood out starkly from his bronze skin.

He had one hand on the floor near his extended ankle, the right hand reaching for the sky and he was looking at his hand as if there was something fascinating at the end of his fingertips. His dark hair was scraped back from his face and tied in a loose bun.

The man straightened up, the arm with the tattoo held awkwardly at his side. He groaned and rotated his left shoulder for a moment. He stretched the arm over his head, straining to lift it over his head, fingers shaking.

“Hey, Nat,” he said. “Can you come… give me a hand for just a second?” He glanced at Steve and his eyebrows went up for a moment.

“Did you overstrain it?” Nat, his tour-guide, shook her head. “You know --”

“Just help me, you can fuss later,” he said. He turned, facing away from Steve and Steve openly gaped. The man’s back was a mess of scar tissue across the shoulder, red and raw looking. He looked like he’d barely survived a fight with an angry chainsaw.

The man shifted his feet a little, the muscles in his back tensing, at which point Steve realized that Barnes had seen Steve’s horrified expression in the mirror. He hastily schooled his features, but the damage was already done. Steve had stared at the man the same way other people stared at Steve. God damnit.

Nat ignored them both, helped Barnes by supporting the left elbow until his joint was on a level with his shoulder, then slowly straightened the arm. “Say when.”

“Hold it there,” Barnes said, his voice harsh. “Ok.”

She held the pose another five seconds, and by that time Barnes was sweating.

“I said _okay_ , Nat, you fucking sadist,” Barnes snapped.

“You’re fine,” she said, lowering the arm again. “Can you lift it?”

Barnes stretched a little, rotating his wrist, flexing the fingers. He tried to bend his elbow, winced, tried again. “Yeah, it just, you know, cramps up.”

“Good. Stop straining it and it’ll heal faster.”

Barnes nodded. “Yes, mom,” he said, then danced out of the way of her casual backhand with a fluid grace that made Steve’s heart beat a little faster. “So, client?”

“This is Mr. Rogers,” Nat said, indicating Steve. “He just signed on today.”

Given that Steve had been terribly rude, Steve was expecting a sneer or a very neutrally unwelcome smile. Instead he got treated to a blinding flash of teeth and a “Welcome to Winter’s Gym,” he said. “My name’s Coach Barnes, but you can call me Bucky, if you want. Nat says I’m gonna coach you for a bit, help you on your way to your goals. Wanna come sit down with me for a bit and we’ll see what you want to accomplish here and the best way to go about doing it?” He offered a hand and without thinking, Steve took it.

The man’s hand was warm, the handshake firm without being crushing in the manner Steve was used to. “Thanks. You can call me Steve.”

“Well, that beats Mr. Rogers,” Bucky said with a quick grin. Despite the injury and his extensive scarring, Bucky was a good-looking man, with a face like a Raphael angel. “I was wondering if you were going to welcome me to your neighborhood.”

It wasn’t the first time Steve had heard that joke. It wasn’t even the hundredth time. His normal method of dealing with that shit was just to blink, as if he was confused, but in this case, something about Bucky’s smile did him in. _You can be my neighbor any time_ , he thought. “Yeah, you look like a Daniel the striped tiger sort of fan,” he commented instead.

“Good call, Nat,” Bucky said, laughing. “I think I’ll like this one.”

***

Bucky Barnes rubbed absently at his shoulder as he led the literal 98-pound weakling to his office. He’d rarely seen a full-grown man so tiny and delicate. He swung the door open and gestured the man inside. It wasn’t entirely his office; he shared desk space with the Zumba instructor, Anya, and two part-timers: Logan, who did Spin class and Bucky could never remember the step-aerobics instructor’s name. She annoyed him, anyway, the slave-driver.

“Have a seat,” Bucky said. He threw himself into the rolling chair, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he did so. Nat was right, he wasn’t supposed to be using it nearly as much as he was. He’d taken it out of the sling at least four weeks earlier than he should have, as well. At least Nat hadn’t ratted him out to his troupe leader. “Tell me what your goals are for joining a gym.”

He wasn’t entirely listening to the answer; he’d been here for almost half a year this stretch. Usually he was only working the gym circuit for the off-season, and it annoyed him that as a full-time employee he made more money working at the gym than he had as principal dancer in the troupe. Until his arm recovered ( _if_ his arm recovered) this was going to be his permanent job, however. He had to eat.

But when the skinny man got to the words experimental medical procedure, Bucky’s attention snapped back to him. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

The look Bucky got was amused exasperation; something in the cockeyed set of Steve’s mouth was clearly stating that he got that a lot. He was used to being ignored and dismissed. “My doctor tells me I need to gain almost thirty pounds to be accepted into a pharmaceutical drug trial. He suggested I join a gym with the intent of gaining muscle mass.” His eyebrow went up under that golden hair that fell in a listless curve over his forehead.

“Okay, then,” Bucky said. He had worked with a few guys who were trying to build muscle mass, although most of them started out with a fairly hefty amount of beer belly. Energy to muscle conversion wasn’t too hard, but this guy was tiny. There wasn’t enough meat on him to satisfy a weasel. “Low cardio, high muscle build, gotcha. How familiar are you with the weights?”

Steve continued to look at him with that half-smirk. “I can carry a half-gallon of milk,” he said. “Most of the time. Without having asthma problems.”

“That’s good,” Bucky said. “No, seriously, I mean that. A half gallon of milk weighs about four pounds. We can start there. Most recent weight-trials show that lighter lifting doesn’t actually hinder muscle growth. Can you do cardio, like at all? Walking on a treadmill is basic cardio, and you should keep your heart pumping. The whole system works together.”

“I can walk, for a while,” Steve admitted. “I get tired easily.”

“And how are your joints? Flexible or not so much?”

Steve shrugged. “I haven’t had much opportunity to try. I can tie my own shoes, though.” He gave a short, barking laugh.

Bucky tapped the computer a few times. “Let me see your ID card,” he said, swiping it through the system. “I also see here you got the juicer pack.”

“Doctor Erskine recommended it.”

“I’ll come with you, first time, put something custom together for you. Most of these drinks are just chocolate milk in disguise, which isn’t so bad, because chocolate milk is actually very good for you, when you’re working out, but you might need the extra boost. We’ll get together a recipe.”

Bucky handed him back his ID card. “So, I have some suggestions, let’s see how you feel about them. We’re going to start with two beginner yoga classes -- your muscles haven’t had much workout and yoga increases strength and flexibility. My class in particular is static yoga; pose and hold, as opposed to some of my fellow instructors who do a cardio-yoga, which is moving from one position to another fluidly. Maybe later you can try that, but based on what you’ve told me, I think it would make you unbalanced to start. That class runs four times a week, and you should come in for at least two classes. They’re an hour long each. Three days a week, we’ll do a half-hour to forty minutes on the weights, starting small. Probably staying small. At least for now, I don’t want you at anything higher than 40% max. And one day a week, you walk. Four percent incline for fifteen minutes. We’ll increase that as your endurance improves.”

“And the other day?” Steve asked.

“You need to rest some of the time. Take a day off, live a little,” Bucky said. “Go on dates, see a movie. Eat an ice cream.”

Steve laughed. “I haven’t been on a date in almost two years.”

“Well, I’m only your personal trainer in the gym,” Bucky said. “I can’t be responsible for everything.”

“True,” Steve said. “I’ll get back to you on the whole dating thing, after I’ve gained the weight?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bucky said. “Let me show you the weight room, and we can get started.”

***

Steve leaned against the receptionists desk and waited for Nat to notice him. He really didn’t have the energy for anything else. Deep in his gut, where he didn’t want to acknowledge it, was shame. He hadn’t done anything, really. Walked for five minutes on the treadmill because Bucky said never, ever to lift weights without warming up. Then Bucky had figured Steve’s “max weight” by starting with a very low weight and making Steve do reps in good form.

Bucky’s hands had been all over him, straightening him out, helping him get his feet set, standing behind him and helping demonstrate the way to list by pressing under his bicep as Steve lifted. It had been highly distracting. The man was so damn unreal, good looking, smart-assed, witty, and yet, unbearably patient and kind. He was the sort of person that Steve only knew because he was paid.

Steve’s max lift had been thirty pounds. “Nah, it’s good,” Bucky said. “No place to go but up, right?” After lifting the freaking bar, with no weights on it, several times, Steve’s arms had felt like warm jello. Not even wiggly, just… gross.

“Yes, Mr. Rogers, what can I do for you?” Nat was beaming at him, her smile seeming very real, not at all the sort of I-have-to-smile-as-part-of-my-job that Steve was used to from customer service reps.

“I was --” he coughed, feeling the wheeze of his asthma building up. He was hoping to get through the whole gym session without needing his inhaler. He’d blasted it before coming in, and sometimes that would get him through. Somehow it seemed like failure again, having to medicate during a simple hour in the gym. “I was wondering if there was some way to get a print-out of Coach Barnes’ exercise plans. We talked a lot, during, and I don’t know if I’ll remember them all, next time.”

Nat blinked a few times, then said, “He talked to you?”

“Is he not supposed to?” Shit, shit, shit. Steve scrambled for an out, but he didn’t really know what to say. Coach Barnes -- Bucky, really, Steve was already thinking of him as Bucky -- had chatted lightly the whole time, nothing that needed more of a response than yes, no, or a thoughtful hum. A touch of celebrity gossip, some cute stories about his cat, comments on Steve’s form, gentle encouragement. The man’s voice had been more motivating than a whip; Steve hadn’t wanted anything aside from to listen to him talk, to keep him talking.

“Oh, sure, he can talk if he wants to,” Nat said. She gave Steve a sharp glance. “He just usually _doesn’t_. Surly, our Coach Barnes. Oh, yes --” she tapped something up on the computer “-- he put in a list for you, so you can look over your reps and weights and your caloric intake and stuff. He’s attached a rebate coupon here for one of those fitness trackers, if you’re interested in that. They’re useful tools, if you let them be.”

Sure. A fitness band, that’s what Steve needed in his life.

Honestly, he was just tired. He wanted to go home and take a shower. The gym had showers, but ug, Steve had terrible memories of high school locker rooms and the idea of showering at the gym was just… no. Not going to happen.

“I didn’t find him surly at all,” Steve said, honestly. “I thought he was very kind to your new charity case.” Steve made a shapeless gesture in the direction of his shapeless body.

“Good,” Nat said. “You two seemed like you might be a good fit.” She stapled a card to the stack of printouts. “I’ve given you a copy of Coach Barnes’ card, in case you need to cancel a session or something. We’re here to help you, at any time.”

Yeah. Right. Steve was going to what… text his personal trainer? Sure. Okay.

Steve couldn’t quite help a last, long look back at the gym before he pushed the door open and headed out. Bucky was standing near the weight room, talking to someone else, but happened to look up, and happened to smile. He waved his right hand at Steve, a cheerful little salute.

Maybe this was a good idea, Steve thought, feeling weirdly encouraged and warmed.

***

Bucky wasn’t sure why he texted his client from the previous day.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered. Scrawny little kid like that, he’d be talking himself out of ever coming back by the time he reached his car. Interesting sob story, though.

He had… spirit. Heart.

Bucky flipped through his files; there was the guy’s number. There was an opt-out for texts and emails from the gym. That was in the contract, and Bucky flipped through the files. Nope, client hadn’t opted out. He probably shouldn’t, although he’d texted a few times with people who were training for various events, marathons and 5k races to give them some encouragement. It would be perfectly professional.

The fact that he couldn’t get those fierce blue eyes and that determined chin out of his mind didn’t have anything to do with it.

_Good morning! It’s Coach Barnes! How’s your delayed onset muscle soreness? (It always sounds better when it has an official medical name, right?)_

New text from Unknown:

_Ur 2 cherful & i hate u._

Bucky snickered into his cup of coffee. He pulled up the contact information and added Steve Rogers into his list.

_Sore muscles mean you are, in fact, working the muscle. Be inspired! It’s a good start. Take some asprin, keep warm. Get in a short walk, if you can. Stretching helps._

New text from Steve:

_This is ur nspiration._

Attached was a charcoal and chalk drawing, pretty damn good, actually, of Bucky’s face. That Steve had stuck little devil horns on.

_You got my good side, I’m flattered._

New text from Steve:

_U cn hv it. Warm up art. Instd of art supoosed to do._

Bucky chuckled and downloaded the photo to his cloud. Nat might get a kick out of seeing it.

New text from Steve:

_Forgt. Is yoga today?_

Bucky pulled up the schedule, even though he had the damn thing memorized. He wasn’t, in fact, teaching his yoga class today. There were other classes today, Spin and Step and a couple of the Zumba classes. Nothing that his client was ready for.

_No, but come in. I’ll give you a one-on-one starter lesson. It’ll help get you familiar with the terminology and we’ll get you fitted with a yoga mat and some blocks._

New text from Steve:

_U sureQ dnt want 2 put u out._

Bucky had never done anything like this before; even when clients had requested special hours, or adapting his schedule, he usually refused. He’d certainly never suggested to a client that he stay late, or alter his plans. He tapped through the room schedule. The hot-yoga room was free, after four.

_If you can come in after four today, I can fit you in for a one on one. Hot room yoga, which will help with those sore muscles. Dress down. Bring a change of clothes. You will be dripping with sweat._

He told himself that he was not imagining his client with his tee-shirt sticking to him, hair in messy, wet tangles, mouth open and panting.

And if he did, it was nobody’s business but his own.

New text from Steve:

_Sure. ok. Cu l8r_

***

Steve didn’t move any slower than usual. His arms and legs hurt like someone had thrown him down the stairs -- he’d actually been knocked down the stairs a time or two in middle school, so he was familiar enough to decide it was a fair comparison. But he was also used to pain.

That was one of the things people always mistook about him that he wished he had some way to explain.

He knew that he looked delicate. He looked like a wilting flower.

But Steve Rogers knew pain.

He knew the pain of struggling with a breath. He knew the pain of being in the ER and having a Cpap forcing air into his lungs and wishing they’d just leave him alone to die.

He knew severe headaches, enough that they made him vomit.

He had aching joints. Muscle spasms. His heart sometimes decided to go off and do its own thing, beating rapidly for no reason, or out of tempo. Arrhythmia made him dizzy; he knew pain from falls when his heart would start beating out a tango.

So, even though his muscles were sore and aching, he didn’t move any differently than he usually did. On top of everything else he’d learned over a lifetime of being ill, Steve knew how to front like a champion. Honestly, it wasn’t like anyone really cared.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rogers,” Nat said, cheerful, from her position behind the desk. She waved at him. “He’s in the back, all the way down. Last room on the left.”

Steve concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d agreed to this. He was tired. He’d put in almost forty minutes of weights yesterday, probably more than he’d ever done before in his entire life. And then he’d done his normal day’s work, tending to a hundred and fifty-seven tiny little artists in batch jobs. They were working with construction paper cutouts, which was a lot of sweeping, but at least Steve didn’t have paint in his hair for a change.

Steve pushed the door in on a wave of muggy heat. He blinked, coughed once, and then _stopped breathing_.

Because Bucky Barnes was on the floor wearing only a pair of shorts so brief that they were practically Speedos. His right leg was flat on the floor, hand resting on his thigh. The other leg was somewhere practically _behind his goddamn ear_. His spine was curved neatly, belly crunched, showing off the muscles in his back and abdomen at the same time. Left elbow bent and resting against his knee, fingers grasping his outstretched toes.

Steve squinched his eyes closed. Pressed his fingers across the bridge of his nose until there were spots behind his eyelids. Opened them again. _Yep, still gay._ He wondered, frantically, for a moment if there was any way to back up and request a female personal trainer, and not for the reasons that most people would think, but because he honestly wasn’t sure he could have a coherent conversation with a man who was that fucking flexible, and from that particular mental word choice, Steve was already into _flexible fucking_ and visualizing and oh, shit, oh, shit, he was in trouble--

_Thud._

His gym bag hit the floor with a sudden jolt.

And Bucky looked up, and he happened to smile again, that brilliant, breathtaking expression and Steve knew he wouldn’t ask for a female trainer, he wouldn’t sacrifice a moment of this exquisite agony, and that’s exactly what it was going to be: _torture._ This was as close to touching something pure and perfect that skinny, sickly Steve Rogers was ever going to get.

“Grab a mat and come on over,” Bucky said. He pulled his leg further, the shorts riding up until Steve could see the perfect curve of his buttcheek. He let out a long, sensual sigh and then rolled up to a sitting position. He stretched his back, pushing his elbow against his knee and twisting his waist.

Right. Look for a mat. Steve was supposed to be doing something, rather than just gawking at Bucky. He left his bag on the floor and checked the bins in the back. The various yoga mats were bright colors, each printed with chakra symbols (or something, Steve didn’t really know) or lotus leaves or bamboo shoots. Steve selected a blue one with a star on one side.

The mats smelled like cleaning solution, but under that, sweat. Must have been strong; Steve’s sense of smell was decidedly lacking, but no one had ever been able to tell him if that was a partial birth disorder, or if perpetually stuffed sinus cavities had stunted the sense.

He turned and almost bumped right into Bucky, who’d come up behind him. Bucky put out a hand on Steve’s upper arm, steadying him, and they were a lot closer together than Steve had expected. His breath caught in his throat as he looked up. Bucky’s hair was scraped up into a bun, but tendrils had escaped and were curling, damp with sweat, against his face and the back of his neck.

“Okay, lose the shoes, socks, and as much of your clothing as you’re comfortable with. It’s gonna get hot in here, and the more of your muscle I can see, the better I can help you with the positions. Also, letting you know, I’m a very touchy yoga instructor. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

Steve blinked. He never took his shirt off in front of other people if he could possibly help it. He was scrawny and pale and his ribs weren’t just visible, they were countable. “Uh? I guess not?” He’d been poked and prodded by doctors all the time, so it wasn’t like he never got touched, and he was just going to have to think about this as being an extended doctor’s visit. With a stupidly hot doctor.

Steve stripped out of his footwear, tucking the socks inside his shoes. His feet were ugly, flat with fallen arches, the toes spreading wide to compensate. He was prone to shin splints and rolling his ankles. After a moment’s hesitation, he shed the shirt, too.

“We’re gonna start with some Pranayama,” Bucky said. “Standing straight and breathing. Feet together. Here,” and Bucky’s hands came down on Steve’s hips, gently pushing at his waist, “get your hips under your shoulders. Straighten your back up, much as you can. Hands together, fingers laced under your chin.”

Bucky took a step back, got on his own mat, facing Steve. “Mirror me. We’re going to take some deep breaths. In through the nose, out the mouth. If you can.” Bucky added that last bit with some chagrin, as if he’d forgotten how not-normal Steve was. Bucky demonstrated, breathing free and deep the way Steve rarely could. Pulled the air all the way, deep in, his diaphragm flexing. “The idea isn’t to hold your breath, but to breathe in until your lungs are as full as you can hold, then exhale slowly.”

Breathing, eyes half-lidded, Bucky looked utterly, utterly at peace. He breathed several times, then flexed, keeping his hands under his chin, but raising up his elbows until his forearms were pressed against his ears, his elbows forming a V over his head. “This opens up your back. Breathe here. In…. and out….”

Steve could barely manage that much, and this was the _first move_? His elbows didn’t move higher than his skull, and he certainly didn’t manage that clean line. His V was sloppy, arms way out to the sides, more like a curved bracket that had fallen on its side.

Bucky ran through the move a few times, letting Steve do his bad mimic. “This opens up your chest, lets as much oxygen circulate through your lungs and to your organs. The idea is to get yourself focused on the moves, and also on your inner person. It doesn’t matter what shape the human body is in, if you don’t take care of your inner man.” Easy for Bucky to say; he moved and looked like a Greek god. He was in peak physical condition, everything that Steve wasn’t. Except, maybe, for that injury.

Steve knew, a few times, from being in physical therapy with guys who had sports injuries, or car crashes, that the healthy were much more prone to complaining about their various aches and pains than those people, like himself, who’d been in pain since they were born. To Steve, shin splints or a dislocated ankle, or a strained tendon were all part of his life. Barely even registered on his pain scale.

“You believe that,” Steve said, before he even thought about it, which wasn’t atypical. Steve had a bad habit of opening his mouth and falling in. He knew it got him in trouble but he really couldn’t stop. It’s not like most people liked him anyway, he might as well say what he was thinking. “That spirituality shit that’s supposed to go along with this, inner peace and your pain is a ball of healing light.”

Bucky stopped right in front of him. “I believe that the person inside is important, yes. This --” he touched Steve’s arm, right in his flabby, pathetic, mashed potato bicep “--is only the least of the package.” His voice took on a croaky, higher-pitch. “‘Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.’”

Steve couldn’t help it. He fell out of the pose entirely with a bark of laughter that turned into a cough. “ _Star Wars_ , really?” The cough persisted. Wet, slick air in his chest, throat tightening. Shit, shit, _shit_ , he didn’t want to do this here. Most people didn’t really know what asthma was. And he’d been told before that it sounded so fake, that it sounded like Hollywood’s bad idea of a cough, choking, wheeze. It sounded like he was looking for attention. All those thoughts scrambled around in his head while he struggled for breath.

He’d already waited too long. His chest was too tight -- it fucking sucked that he couldn’t even laugh because his breathing was too messed up to allow it -- and he couldn’t talk. He held up one finger and moved as quick as he could to his gym bag.

Fell to one knee and dug through the front pocket. His fingers brushed the plastic and then he had the inhaler in his hand. Erskine had fussed at him several times for not using his spacer, for inhaling directly, which flared up his mouth ulcers, but Steve couldn’t help it. Psychosomatic or not, he always felt a direct inhale was better; eased his breathing faster. To hell with his ulcers. He wrapped his lips around the mouthpiece and sprayed.

As always, the mist was sickly sweet, almost gag-inducing. It wouldn’t be so bad, Steve thought, if the sweetness wasn’t also fake. Like eating a sugary flower. Or drinking that hideous marshmallow flavored vodka that his friend Sharon had insisted he try at one of the teacher parties. The tension in his chest let go, slowly at first, and then seemed to go all at once. He pulled in a shaky breath, coughed a few times, rumbled, and brought up a mouthful of slime and phlegm. He pulled a tissue out of his bag and spit into it. Quick peek to check the color. Dark yellow, so it was bad, but not _that_ bad. When it was bloody show, he needed to head in to the emergency room where he’d spend a few days with needles in his arms and a tube in his chest.

Bucky was, thankfully, not hovering as Steve looked around. He was back at his mat, turned partially away, as if trying to give Steve privacy while not ignoring him.

Weird. Nice, though.

“You okay?”

“Better now,” Steve said. “Sorry, asthma.”

Bucky turned all the way around to face him. “You don’t have to be sorry for being ill. You were very clear with us about your conditions. I trust you to know when you need a doctor.”

There were no words. The yoga room was already hot, and Steve was dripping with sweat, and he’d just used his inhaler, which usually also made him overheated.

But Bucky’s simple acceptance of his condition warmed him, profoundly. He offered Bucky a smile, then, “I’m feeling better now,” he said. It wasn’t even a lie. And having used his inhaler, he’d probably be okay for at least the next two hours. “If you want to continue.”

Bucky gestured to the mat. “Whenever you’re ready, Steve.”

***

When Bucky had time to think about it, he probably would have admitted that Nat was right. Bucky had needed a project, something other than just trying to build up strength in his arm again. Because he was beginning to think that wasn’t going to happen.

He might get about sixty percent back; his full range of motion was decidedly possible, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to lift more than about sixty pounds, and even the slenderest, most child-like ballet dancer was at least eighty-five pounds. His old partner, Ophelia, had been nearly a hundred and thirty. Ballerinas were waiflike, but still not intangible, and if he couldn’t lift a partner, he couldn’t dance.

There were positions and choreography to do his own, solo, work, but a prime dancer in the ballets and in a company always needed a partner.

If he’d been left to his own devices, he’d have probably fallen into a black pit of self-loathing. Bucky had always, always wanted to be a dancer. His mother, Winifred Barnes, had been an excellent dancer, and when she retired, she was a teacher. He’d grown up with it, could pirouette before most boys his age were hitting a tee-ball.

Bucky didn’t know how to define himself outside of the audience.

He missed the cheers and the curtain calls. He missed the close camaraderie of his fellow dancers (and the rivalry, Bucky would admit that, he enjoyed the hell out of showing up the other male dancers with his beauty and grace. Watching Rumlow grind his teeth in an agony of jealous frustration had been a particularly stellar, if not particularly nice, part of Bucky’s season)

Working with Steve Rogers, Bucky started to understand why Winifred had turned to teaching, once she wasn’t getting the parts anymore. (She was too old, which Bucky thought was a shame, because she was still beautiful and flexible, but directors were a batch of misogynistic fuckwits that stopped seeing women at all after thirty-five and rarely saw them as people at all, just ornaments to dance and twirl.)

There was something strangely intimate about sculpting another human being. Teaching a class had its rewards, obviously, otherwise he wouldn’t have done it. Between what he’d earned and what his mother had built, he could have spent another few years on disability, without having to work, at least. Could have hidden away in his room. But Bucky rather liked teaching.

Having a one-on-one student, however, that was… more. Better. He liked it.

Yoga and weightlifting with Steve wasn’t hard work, not really. Steve couldn’t handle more than five pounds in each hand, at first, and even that made him sweat and breath heavy and quick. But the kid was determined. He had a stubborn jaw and a streak of determination about him that Bucky admired.

Steve was someone who wasn’t about to let life beat him; he’d been dealt a rotten hand by life, and he was spitting mad about it, instead of resigned.

Joining Steve at the juice-bar after a workout had become a thing, and they were talking and texting each other outside a strictly professional relationship, even though Steve dutifully paid the extra thirty a month to have Bucky as his personal trainer. Bucky went above and beyond the call of his job on that particular contract, too. Technically, Steve was allowed two hours of Bucky’s time, but by the end of the first month, they spent nearly five hours a week together in the gym, plus time after Bucky was off the clock.

And somehow, that slowly rolled around to Bucky and Steve meeting up on the weekend for the all-you-could-eat breakfast buffet down the road from Steve’s apartment.

Which Bucky discovered by accident, walking to his subway station on one particularly fine day and Steve walked with him, just chatting and then, “Oh, this is my--”

Bucky glanced up at the building, one of those ugly off-white buildings that frequently had shitty window insulation and bad plumbing and no elevator. “This is where you live?”

Steve nodded, tight-lipped, not quite smiling. “I have a ground-floor, at least,” he joked as Bucky looked all the way up. “The light sucks for painting, but I don’t think I would last long, taking the stairs up to the roof-top places.”

Bucky hesitated, then said, “Hey, you… um. Wouldn’t want to join me for dinner, maybe, later this week or something? I mean, I know we’re already spending a lot of time together, an’ all, and that’s great, I don’t want that to stop, but… an’ I won’t take it bad if you say no, or nothin’. I can be professional.” _You are such a liar, James Barnes._  

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed in. “Are you… asking me on a date?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “Yeah. I guess I am.” He was a little surprised at himself. He still wasn’t sure he was in a good place to date, but… here was this golden opportunity, and Bucky wanted to not miss it. For a change. He’d missed too much already. Being a dancer didn’t give him a lot of opportunity to get to know someone. He’d fucked, sure, but with ten plus hours of rehearsal, a strict diet, going over the score with partners, interpreting director vision… didn’t allow for _getting to know you_.

In one short month, Bucky felt like he’d talked to Steve about everything under the sun, listened raptly to everything the man said. Felt… like he had a friend.

One that he thought was incredible, determined. Pretty, in a sweet, slight way. Funny. Smart.

“Okay, then,” Steve said, seriously, his eyes still a little confused. “A date. Yeah, we can… sure. A date.”

“Great. I’ll text you in a few days and we’ll work something out,” Bucky said. “I’ve got a couple doctor things this weekend, so I won’t see you again until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday it is, then,” Steve said. “I look forward to it.”

***

Dating Bucky had to be one of the best things in Steve’s life.

Unlike the few other dates he’d gone on, Bucky catered everything around Steve’s abilities without coddling him. Their first date, dinner, was pretty basic. Establishing the parameters, and they had an involved conversation over their food on what they expected from a date-partner. Steve might have thought that was moving along too fast, for just having a first date, except he agreed with Bucky that establishing expectations before they moved along to caring, or invested, was a good plan.

Excepting, of course, that Steve was already caring and invested. God damnit.

Bucky was clear; he hadn’t had a lot of permanent partners, but he kept his health clear and would get Steve a doctor’s report before they moved into anything physical. He was dating with… intentions, and not just a good time. He was open to poly, but it wasn’t his preferred state. He admitted to having issues with jealousy and possessiveness, but he was working on both those things. He didn’t always remember to check his phone, so not to fret if he didn’t answer right away.

Steve, on the other hand, was left floundering. Bucky had obviously prepared for the conversation. Steve had a brief, but vivid image in his head of Bucky taking notes and practicing in front of the mirror.

Steve himself had barely dated at all, maybe a dozen or more first or blind dates, two second dates, and one whirlwind romance that had ended when Peggy Carter got a job offer and went back to Europe.

Did he have expectations for a dating partner? God only knew. Steve shrugged. “I haven’t dated enough to know what I want,” he finally admitted. “Only what I don’t want.”

“That’s as good a start as any,” Bucky said. “Tell me what you don’t want.”

Steve ended the date at his door with an awkward goodbye in which he wasn’t sure if Bucky was thinking about going for a kiss or not, and then spent the next three hours running through everything he’d said, wondering what the fuck was wrong with him, and honestly, Bucky would be smart if he ran now and never looked back, because Steve was such an antisocial, bad temper, neurotic, ridiculous, high-handed piping hot mess of contradictions masquerading as a grown-assed adult

It had seemed, at the time, that Bucky was encouraging Steve to talk about all those things in his previous relationships -- what relationships, really? -- that had bothered him, get it out.

But why, why would someone do that? The only thing Steve could think of was that he’d massively misread the situation and then Bucky was so overwhelmed by what an asshole Steve was that he didn’t know how to gracefully end the conversation.

Steve… did not look so great the next day, at school.

Enough so that more than half his students commented on it. Fifth graders… fifth graders commented that Steve looked like he hadn’t slept.

Also, the principal, but Nick Fury didn’t much seem to like anyone and any excuse to fuss -- you need more sleep, Rogers! -- was a good excuse.

But Bucky called again, and then again. And he had cute date ideas, which took into consideration Steve’s physical limitations. They went to a go-cart track in Jersey. An art museum, and then a gallery show, since Steve enjoyed the first one so much. Bucky rented a room at the library and they did bad renditions of famous paintings in marker and highlighter. (Steve’s wasn’t too bad, actually, and a few weeks later, he presented it, matted and framed, to Bucky as a memento.)

They spend one night lying on the floor in Bucky’s apartment, putting together a ridiculously hard jigsaw puzzle. All white, with a single bumblebee in one corner. Steve thought he was going to go insane. On the plus side, his color blindness didn’t adversely affect the puzzle all that much for a change. Bucky had glued that together and framed it, for Steve. Steve had to try really hard not to tear up at that one.

That date had ended with their first actual kiss. Bucky’d leaned over the puzzle and pressed his mouth to Steve’s the instant that Steve slid the last piece in place. Steve froze, mouth half open as he was getting ready to say something. He could taste Bucky’s breath, some elusive flavor, sweet and wild. Steve inhaled, eyes sliding shut, and Bucky’s hand came up to curl at the back of his neck, tickling the short hair there.

Steve wasn’t sure what to do, not with his hands or his mouth or anything. He saw spangles of lights under his eyelids, and his hands went down to tent against the floor to keep his balance. Even sitting, he’d been known to upend sometimes if his heart got to beating too fast, and right that instant, it felt as though it might escape his chest entirely and run off on its own.

Bucky took care of the rest of it, his tongue patiently sweeping over Steve’s lower lip, coaxing him to open up. He flicked the inside of Steve’s upper lip, a tingling, teasing touch, and then Steve’s mouth was open and Bucky was leaning into it, a soft, rumbling sigh coming from his throat.

And that little sound, it set Steve on fire. He wondered what other sorts of noises Bucky might make, and when. What could Steve do to him, for him, _with him_ , that would elicit moans and soft sighs, would get the man swearing with need and begging for Steve’s touch.

He wasn’t entirely sure when Bucky dragged him across the floor; the next thing he knew, Steve was straddling Bucky’s lap and they were rocking together, Bucky’s arms around his lower back as they kissed and kissed and…

“Oh, god,” Steve gasped, and then god fucking damnit, his breath was whistling in his lungs like a fucking tea kettle and everything seized up. His chest ached, his diaphragm was shivering and he couldn’t stop trying to suck air like a landed trout. “Fuck.”

Bucky didn’t even blink; he just reached behind him and snatched Steve’s inhaler off the coffee table where he’d left it.

Steve triggered it, then stared up at Bucky while his chest fought with the medication. Bucky was already doing that thing, where he wasn’t looking _quite_ at Steve. One hand was on Steve’s knee, warm and comforting. He knew that Bucky wasn’t ignoring him, just giving him the space to deal with his asthma. Steve was pathetically grateful for it; he’d always been stared at and even when people were concerned, he hated it. He always wanted to apologize or protest or complain, and he didn’t have the air to do it with. The way Bucky cared…

...well, it took Steve’s breath away, and in a much better way than the asthma attack had.

“Thanks,” Steve said, when he had enough breath to spare for conversation. “I’m--”

“Doing better?” Bucky put one finger gently across Steve’s lips.

“Yeah?”

“Then that’s all I care about.”

The mood for kissing was gone, but they rolled up the finished puzzle on the mat, and then, the next date, Bucky asked, “Is there… something I was doing wrong, that made it harder for you to breathe?”

“It’s just my asthma,” Steve said, staring at his fingers. “When… when I get too excited, too fast…”

“Ah,” Bucky said. A smug little smile touched his lips. “So. Surprise kisses might not be the best plan, but you did _like_ it?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, stunned. Bucky was worried that Steve hadn’t liked their kiss? When Steve kept dragging it out of his memories and replaying it, over and over, until even his students had noticed that he was daydreaming?

“Okay,” Bucky said. Then, “could I kiss you again?”

Steve blinked, then… “Yeah.”

And that one… that one went much better.

And in between all of those, they still spent four hours together each week at the gym.

“A hundred and twenty-three,” Bucky announced, looking at the scale.

Three days before the trial started and it wasn’t… quite enough. Steve scowled at the scale. He’d done some research on the internet for gaining weight quickly, and most of them had some bullshit “get by this one weigh-in” for things like sports… they were similar to the sorts of thinspo bullshit he’d seen a few times, too. Overtake a diarrhea medication and purposefully not take a shit. Drink a lot of water.

“It’ll be fine,” Bucky said. “Just keep doing what we’re doing. You’ve been making steady progress, this whole time.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Steve said. “I just… ug. Nervous, I guess. I really want this study, I--”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Well, come on, let’s get some lifting, and a shake, and…” he paused for a long moment, eying Steve… “Look, I know we… haven’t moved things forward much, in this whole dating thing. It’s not a complaint, Steve, my Christ, you worry too much!”

Steve eyed him under his lashes. Not like he could help it. Bucky was the best thing that had ever happened for him, and Steve was in a near-constant state of terror that he was going to fuck it up. “You have a point for me, somewhere in the future?”

Bucky cackled, his neck turning red. “Um, that might be exactly it,” he said. “I was… thinking maybe, it’d help you relax a little. You know, if you wanted to move things to the next stage, and… I do really like you.”

Liked him. Bucky liked him. Well that was something, Steve supposed. He’d been pretty much in love with the man since they met, so liking… that was good, and… Steve’s brain finished processing what Bucky was saying. “You mean, like… sex?” His voice dropped into an almost inaudible whisper on that last word.

“I mean, like sex.”

“Yeah, um… yeah, that’d… that’d be swell.”

Inside his head, Steve was facepalming already. That’d be _swell_? Like who even said that? He wondered if Bucky had gotten some brain damage in the accident that injured his arm, because why else would he continue to put up with _Steve_?

“Great!” Bucky seemed to actually mean it. He straightened his expression then, and they headed back to the weight room to hopefully get a little more meat on Steve’s bones before Monday.

***

Bucky would have thought planning to have sex would make it less romantic; or maybe less nerve-wracking, but it wasn’t.

Bucky cleaned his entire apartment, making sure to dust, change the air-filters (something real adults were supposed to do like once every three months and Bucky was lucky if he remembered they even existed more than once a season), vacuumed the whole place, changed the sheets and washed the new ones in hot water, bought new pillows -- he’d read that the amount of dead skin cells and tiny insects and microscopic bacteria made breathing a lot worse for asthmatics -- and even remembered to vacuum the furniture.

If his mother was there to see it, he’d have killed her with the shock, which her students probably would not have appreciated. His whole place was shiny-clean by the time he welcomed Steve inside.

He’d made dinner, too. Bucky wasn’t a particularly good cook, but back when he and his sister first started dating, they’d gotten a piece of advice from their aunt. “Learn to cook at least one thing, really well,” she’d said. “Once you get that meal down, learn another one. Believe me, your dates will appreciate it.”

So, Bucky knew how to cook salisbury steak, homemade mushroom gravy and herbed mashed potatoes. (He’d learned a few others, but it was the steak that kept getting him laid, so he pulled that one out of the oven first time.) He had the table set, all romantic-like, with candles (not beeswax, because Steve was allergic) and flowers (ones without scent or much pollen, and boy, had the florist given him the hairy eyeball for that request!) and some of his good china.

Steve gave him the sarcastic look again, like Bucky’s cleaning hadn’t gone unnoticed and maybe Steve thought he was trying too hard. But Bucky wanted things to go well.

There was conversation over dinner; Bucky was pretty sure that he kept up his end of it. Steve and his doctor, Steve and his concern. And the fact that Steve was less than two pounds away from his goal, which was good. Bucky advised that he eat before he report in, which Steve rolled his eyes at, because of course. Steve wasn’t an idiot.

Although Bucky was a _little_ concerned; experimental medication and strict weight requirements, but he figured that any researcher worth their salt would put in some fault tolerances. Probably. Maybe. What was the worst that could happen, and why the fuck did Bucky always ask that. You’d think he’d know better by now.

About halfway through the meal, Steve reached across the table to take Bucky’s hand, his fingers, still spotted with paint from the school day’s activities, and smiled. “Thank you, for all this,” he said. “Dinner, the dates, all of it. Keeps me from worrying.”

“Does it?” Bucky allowed himself a grin. “Things’ll work out, you’ll see.”

Steve pulled his hand back, quick enough, and accidentally knocked over the salt-shaker. Bucky was just reaching for a pinch when Steve flicked a fingerful over his shoulder. Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Superstitious, the pair of us,” he confessed, chortling behind his napkin so Steve couldn’t see him laughing with a mouthful of potatoes.

“I’m Irish,” Steve pointed out. “I think it’s an ethnic requirement.”

After dinner, and a slice of pie, Steve carried his dishes into Bucky’s tiny kitchen and insisted on rolling up his sleeves and helping with clean up. Which was nice; Bucky was elbow deep in warm, soapy water and Steve rinsed and dried. It felt… comfortable. Domestic. Bucky could easily imagine the rest of his life that way, spent with a sarcastic, witty companion. He put the last plate into the sink and suddenly he really couldn’t wait any longer.

Hands still dotted with clots of soap bubbles, Bucky cupped Steve’s face and brought him up for a kiss, a close-mouthed, affectionate kiss that didn’t even come close to satisfying him, but at the same time, there was something sweet and memorable about it.

Steve bounced up onto his toes, wrapping the dishtowel, a little clammy, around the back of Bucky’s neck, dragging him down. Bucky found himself clinging to Steve with both arms, his hands roaming up and down his back, feeling the hard knobs of his spine, even through the shirt.

Steve made a low, throaty sound, almost like a growl, and that set Bucky on _fire_. He wanted, wanted so damn much, and--

He backed Steve up against the wall, pushing his weight against the smaller man, feeling every elegant line of him, lithe, compact. Clumsy and boney and all pointy-bits and sharp edges, and he was absolutely perfect just the way he was. “You, Steve, do you--”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Steve growled, panting. His leg came up, rubbing against Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky couldn’t help but respond, rolling his hips against Steve’s. He could shut up and kiss, that was a thing that Bucky could manage, and it dovetailed neatly with the only thing that Bucky did want.

Steve’s mouth was soft, yielding, the bottom lip plump and full and beautiful. Bucky was all up in Steve’s space, body pressed against his, hard and aching and wanting so much. He cupped Steve’s cheek, kept his mouth right where he wanted it. Steve was pushing back, just as aggressive, deepening the kiss, devouring Bucky’s mouth and sweet Christ, Bucky was going weak in the knees just from necking. Steve bit down on Bucky’s lower lip, fierce in his passion. He tasted like dinner’s wine, like promises, and strength and his tongue stroked against Bucky’s possessively, as if he intended never to stop.

Bucky’s hands went to Steve’s hips, tugging them closer, moving them together until they were thrusting against each other with deliberate, teasing rhythm. Bucky broke off the kiss, leaning his forehead against Steve’s, panting for breath. He could feel Steve’s galloping heart, the beat strong, but erratic, almost fluttering, against his chest, felt the pulse of it against his lips when he kissed the side of Steve’s throat.

“You want to move this somewhere more comfortable,” Bucky offered, almost tentatively, even though they’d discussed it, Steve had agreed, they both arrived at dinner with sex on the table, but Bucky’s never wanted to push, he wanted _eager_ , not just willing.

Steve took a double-handful of Bucky’s ass, rutting against his thigh a few times before reluctantly turning him loose. “Sounds like a good idea,” Steve said. Bucky gazed down into those crystal blue eyes, and he was lost in them.

Bucky led him back through the apartment; a shotgun style, each room was to the left of the dark, narrow hallway. Bucky always felt like his place was the inside of a cracker box, exactly the same as the ones on either side. The walls were thin, and his neighbors were probably going to be giving him shit, or at least, significant glances. He paused and turned on the television, flipping to one of the music stations, just to give some background noise, so it wasn’t _entirely_ obvious what he was up to.

Steve’s hands were a blur on his way to getting Bucky naked, seemingly less eager to let Bucky return the favor, and Bucky had to bite down on a snarl of impatience. He knew Steve was self-conscious about his skinny body, his pale skin, but he was nothing but lovely and perfect as far as Bucky was concerned, and Bucky didn’t know how to tell him any better way than to cover each inch with his mouth when he got it uncovered. He licked at Steve’s shoulder, mouthed his way down that pale chest. Teased at Steve’s pink nipple until the man was moaning and clinging to Bucky’s shoulders for dear life.

Bucky kissed Steve like he was starving for the taste of his skin. All the blood in his body was pounding, throbbing in his temples, against his wrists, in the hard length of his cock. He ended up on his knees in front of Steve, poised next to, but not yet on, his bed.

“It’s um…” Steve started, then gasped as Bucky got his pants down, jerking the zipper open with a ripping sound. Bucky shoved at the jeans until they were at least down to Steve’s thighs, giving him his first view. Steve was thin, even after gaining twenty pounds, and his hips were bony, the bones jutting against porcelain skin. He looked fragile, delicate. And yet, Bucky already knew his strength; the man had more determination than most. “It’s um… gonna be easier for me if we don’t lay down.”

“Huh?” Bucky gazed up at him, totally aware of the rigid cock, so close to Bucky’s cheek. He wanted to taste and lick and…

Steve’s eyes went wide, the pupil dilating nicely as he took in the view that Bucky presented. “Um… when I lay down,” Steve said, thin chest heaving, “it’s harder to breathe. Can… when I… when I do for myself, I’m usually sitting up.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, and then he pictured it, Steve leaning against his tatty sofa, comfortable sweatpants pooling around his ankles, those long fingers wrapped around his cock while he stroked off. Wondered what Steve thought about, when he was doing it. Oh. Oh, god. He shuddered, then pictured Steve in his lap while--

There was a single chair in Bucky’s bedroom, a battered, black armless office chair. Despite being wheeled, it never moved, unless Bucky put a _lot_ of effort into it, since the carpet in the bedroom was a thick shag. Horrid stuff was left over from the seventies, probably.

Bucky stood up, slow, reluctant. He knew if he got his mouth on Steve’s cock right that second, he wouldn’t stop and… “We can try the chair?” He jerked his chin at the corner, where his desk was.

He barely remembered to snag his lube and a condom from the bedside table before Steve was backing him up. His bare ass hit the worn microsuede of the chair and Bucky wondered if he’d ever be able to sit here again without getting an erection. Steve was in his lap and they were writhing and rubbing together. Bucky found himself with his head tipped back, the whole chair leaning back seductively, Steve’s fine, slick mouth on his, irresistibly demanding. Bucky’s whole body responded to that kiss, those soft moans.

Steve’s hands were in Bucky’s hair, pulling, trapping him, pinning him in place, and his lips were destroying every bit of Bucky’s sanity. A sound came out of Bucky’s mouth, some sort of pleading, desperate noise, a groan and a whine, and his whole body was shaking, straining toward Steve’s.

“Bucky,” Steve said, urgent, urging him on. His eyes were huge and dark with wanting and there was a thoroughly vulnerable, _breakable_ look on Steve’s face.

“Tell me what you like,” Bucky said.

Steve laughed, breathless. “I don’t even know,” he said, red blush spreading across his skin like wildfire. “It already feels good.” Steve blushed harder, tucking his face against Bucky’s neck. God, he was hot, his skin was burning against Bucky’s.

“You… I mean, we can try it, if you want,” Bucky started. “It might be easier for your breathin’ if I-- do you.”

Steve nodded, not looking up from the protected position against Bucky’s throat. “Next time,” he said, like a promise, “I’ll be better.”

“You can’t possibly be _better_ ,” Bucky said. “You’re already perfect. But you can be well. An’ that’ll be good, but it ain’t… you’re not broken, baby. You’re just right.”

“Keep sayin’ it,” Steve said, bitterly sarcastic, “and maybe you’ll believe it.”

“I already believe it,” Bucky said, “but maybe you could try it.”

Steve scoffed, and Bucky knew better than to push it. “Yeah, right.”

“Let me show you,” Bucky suggested, and he let his hands wander down Steve’s spine, counting the vertebrae with his fingers. He stroked a teasing circle around the small of Steve’s back, that sensitive triangle of skin. Steve arched into the touch, his hips moving involuntarily. A strangled moan came out of his mouth as Bucky teased lower, running his fingers along Steve’s crack.

“Show me,” Steve repeated, the slick feel of his body against Bucky’s driving him.

He handed Steve the lube. “Hold that,” he said. “Gonna get you ready for me.” Bucky cupped one hand around the back of Steve’s neck and brought him down for another kiss. Not so much gentle and soothing, but they ate at each other, ravenous and fierce, biting and tasting. Bucky waited, listening to the sounds Steve was making, and then circled that opening to Steve’s body with one lube-slicked finger.

He wasn’t sure if Steve had ever gone that far or not; Steve was remarkably closed-mouthed about his lack of experience, just that he’d had some and he didn't think it was enough.

Steve moved, glorious and torturously as Bucky prepped him. Each roll of his hips brushed his cock along Bucky’s until they were both moaning with it. Precome slick between them, Bucky rutted up against Steve, using all the strength in his dancer’s thighs to flex and push and stroke. He could probably come just like that, Steve’s hands on his shoulders, skinny ass twisting in Bucky’s lap.

“Oh, come on, _come on_ ,” Steve cried as Bucky breached him, pushing one finger in to the knuckle and then twisting it.

 “Relax, doll,” Bucky said, biting down light on Steve’s earlobe. “I got you. I’mma take care of you, you just--”

Steve grabbed a handful of Bucky’s hair and yanked it, his mouth fastening on Bucky’s throat like a starving vampire. He sucked blood to the surface, and Bucky moaned into it. He loved marks, loved seeing them the next day as a solid reminder of what he’d been up to. This time, it was more. He felt claimed, possessed. _Yours, yours_ , he thought, hot and desperate and almost losing the thread of it completely.

God, Steve was tight. His muscles were completely clamping down on Bucky’s fingers, resisting the intrusion, even though Steve was moaning and sighing by turns. Bucky tipped more tube out, used one hand to stroke Steve’s cock, just upstrokes, which had Steve cussing and squirming. It was torture, Bucky knew that, he’d done it before, aching to thrust, but it was near-impossible to orgasm that way.

He got Steve all wound up, all but begging for it by the time Steve was open enough that Bucky wasn’t worried about hurting him.

Bucky had to bite his lip and count backward from twenty to not shoot off in his own damn hand when he got the condom on and slicked himself. He got an arm under Steve’s leg and lifted; the burn and pain in his left shoulder barely registered, too eager to feel Steve’s heat squeezing down on his cock.

“Here, here you are, baby,” Bucky said, and he pushed the crown of his dick against Steve’s hole. Steve arched backward, showing off that slender, porcelain throat, the cords in his neck straining. Steve got his hands down on Bucky’s knees to control his descent and slid down, a few, torturous inches at a time. “Oh, god, I gotcha, Stevie, I…”

He was trying to be gentle, trying to ease Steve into it, but Steve gritted his teeth, set his jaw, and fucking impaled himself on Bucky’s cock.

“Shit,” Bucky managed to gasp between clenched teeth, trying to hold on to the need to thrust up into that tight heat, the urge to fuck Steve stupid, to throw him on the floor and just drive into him. “Wait, hang on, come on, nice and slow.”

But by then, Bucky was seated all the way in and Steve was rocking back and forth, eager and twisting. Steve’s eyes were wide with amazement, then went half-lidded with desire and Bucky couldn’t help but drink in those lush lips, sealing them together in yet another way. _You crazy man,_ he thought, wildly. _I think I love you._

Because he could say anything in his head, and Steve didn’t have to know that Bucky was jumping the gun, letting his heart get lost right along with his dick. No one needed to know that, not yet. He stroked Steve’s back as they moved together. Their bodies came together just right and Bucky thrust up, using the strength in his legs to rock them, slow and subtle movements, delicious and delightful.

One arm around that narrow waist, Bucky got a hand on Steve’s cock, shiny with precome. He let Steve rub it out. A light squeeze, little pressure and Steve ground against Bucky’s hand, face screwed up tight, teeth bared as Bucky fucked up into him.

“Tell me you-- oh, god, honey, tell me you like it.” Bucky knew he was begging, but Steve hadn’t said anything, not since they started and Bucky didn’t think he could stand it if Steve wasn’t feeling good, wasn’t feeling pleasure and heat and lust and--

“It’s good, it’s good,” Steve said, opening one eye to stare at Bucky with that sharp, disbelieving look. Bucky almost laughed; god, he loved that expression on Steve’s face, that _Bucky you are an idiot_ look. “Come on, lover, you gonna fish for compliments or are you going to _fuck me_?”

Steve was laughing, a little hitching gasp to his breathing, as Bucky plunged into him again, and then Steve was moaning and shaking. “Christ, you know how to wreck a man,” Bucky said, thrusting up, and again, working in Steve, wallowing in the luxury of his body, sating himself on it.

A few more strokes and Steve yelled, heat and wet blossoming over Bucky’s fingers, spilling down his wrist, and oh, god, the way Steve clenched. It coulda been illegal, how good it was, and Bucky raised himself up _en pointe_ , his hips rolling a final time as everything in him condensed to one perfect moment, one crystal pleasure.

Steve leaned down, heedless of the stickiness between them and licked the sounds that Bucky made out of his mouth, swallowed them down, hands cupping both sides of Bucky’s face.

When they parted, at last, panting and sweaty with their labors, Bucky wondered if he’d ever be able to move again. Steve’s fingers were shaking as he pushed Bucky’s damp hair out of his face.

Steve snuggled up against Bucky’s chest, resting his cheek on Bucky’s shoulder. “That was… something else.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “Yeah, it was.”

***

The medical clinic where the trials were being held didn’t look like a hospital at all; it looked weirdly like a store front. It was wedged in between an attorney’s office on one side and an antique furniture shop on the other.

Steve checked the address on his phone and stared at the door.

_SSR Pharmaceuticals_ read the logo across the window. Steve shrugged and reached for the doorknob.

The room past the foyer looked like every other medical waiting room Steve had ever seen; a counter behind glass with a nurse, and dozens of uncomfortable chairs and old magazines. The floor was that faded blue that dimly suggested a patch of sky seen through a closed window, and the whole place smelled of antiseptic, and under that, stale urine and vomit and blood.

Steve took off his sweater, tucked it over his arm, and went over to the nurse’s station. She ignored him for a while, but then eventually handed over a clipboard, requested his ID and his doctor’s note, and sent him over to one of the chairs to fill out a million and one forms.

Steve often wondered if anyone actually looked at them. Half the information was duplicated from page to page, and it’s all information someone would have if they made a copy of his driver’s license and affixed it, just in different orders from sheet to sheet.

Sighing, Steve got to work, filling out the papers.

“Mr… Rogers?” Another nurse called him back. “Study 107, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said. She smiled thinly and led him back. Took vitals and wrote some notes on her clipboard.

“Can you step on the scale, please?”

That was the moment, Steve thought. He wanted to cross his fingers, wanted to pray to pagan gods. Please, please, please.

She fiddled with the bar, tapping the weight one way, and then the other. “One hundred… twenty...seven.”

Steve heaved a breath.

“If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you set up in your room, Mr. Rogers. Dr. Carter and Mr. Stark will be holding initial interviews today; there’ll be some baselines established, and we’ll get started in the morning.”

***

Bucky checked his messages for what must have been the four hundredth time in the last month. Still nothing.

The day the trial started, Steve texted him to say he’d gotten in, and that he was going to be offline for a few weeks while he settled in, but he was sure he’d be able to keep in touch, by email if nothing else.

A month later, he texted to say there’d been unexpected complications and that it might be a while before Bucky heard from him again, but that he was okay, and the doctors were encouraged.

That was the last time Bucky had heard from him.

For almost _four months_.

He sent a text from time to time, hoping against hope that Steve would answer. Nothing. He went ‘round by Steve’s apartment a few times, just to see if Steve was there, and maybe… Bucky wasn’t even sure. At first he was worried that Steve was avoiding him, but as nothing turned into more nothing, Bucky had started to wonder if Steve was… sick.

Like, who would ever think to tell Steve’s damn yoga coach? They hadn’t even moved into exclusive dating, even though Bucky hadn’t looked at another man since he had met Steve. It’s not like there was a reason for anyone to tell Bucky if Steve had… been hospitalized. ( _Or_ , his traitor mind whispered, _died_.)

Bucky’d started haunting the street in front of Steve’s apartment, looking up at night to see if there were lights on. For weeks, there was nothing…

Bucky’s work was suffering. He’d scared at least half a dozen students away from his various classes and he was on a Performance Plan with his boss. If he didn’t get hold of his worry, stop taking his aggressions out on other people, he was going to lose his job. Which might mean going to his mother and ask for a position as an instructor in her dance studio. He’d tried hard not to do that, kept holding out hope that his arm would heal enough to go back to performance.

Maybe it was time to give up on that dream.

And then, one night, Bucky saw someone else in the window at Steve’s place. A shadow of a man, walking around in that tiny place. Someone with broad shoulders, taller than Steve by at least eight inches. Someone new. Someone else.

There were a few explanations, probably.

It didn’t necessarily mean that Steve was dead.

Moved on. He could have come home, never contacted Bucky, and found someplace new to live. That would be bad.

Moved on in another way; had a new boyfriend and a new life. That would be… worse.

Bucky sighed. He considered the idea of going up and confronting the newcomer, see which of the options it was and knew he couldn’t do it.

If Steve didn’t have the guts to face him, to tell him that he’d… dumped Bucky, Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to force the issue.

Maybe it was time to give up on that dream, too.

Bucky went home. He called his mother. Winifred was… delighted. Gave Hand his two week’s notice.

He was just packing up his office when someone tapped on the door.

“Hey,” a voice said. Bucky barely glanced up; the footsteps were unfamiliar, and he really didn’t care.

“Not taking new clients,” Bucky said. He pulled open a drawer, considered if he needed any of the files, and started chucking them in the trash. “Happy to recommend the new yoga instructor, or another coach, if you need one.”

There was an uncertain noise. “Bucky,” the man said, “oh, my god, Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky blinked. Looked up. And up some more. It was the same face, sort of. Same perfect blue eyes, same chin, same lush, kissable mouth. “I… I uh, thought you were smaller.”

Steve gave a rueful twist of his lips. “I was,” he said. “Um… it worked? Better than they expected, I guess? I had to stay longer, there were… complications.”

Bucky couldn’t stop staring. The skinny, fragile man he remembered was replaced with… “Damn, you are gonna be the best before/after picture they could ask for.”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, I guess. I needed to have a couple of surgeries to fix some ligament problems that came up in my legs. Physical therapy, still doing that a few times a week. I… uh… got your messages.”

Bucky cringed inwardly. “All of them.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Look, I’m sorry. Things were… well, they weren’t sure what was going to happen. This is all… unexpected. And I didn’t feel right, burdening you with--”

“Well, that’s horseshit,” Bucky said. “You weren’t going to be a burden, Steve. I thought we were… close.”

“I wasn’t sure you were going to believe me, anyway,” Steve said. “I still… I still walk by mirrors and I have no idea who I’m looking at.”

Well, it wasn’t like Bucky wasn’t staring. The change… Steve was _tall_ , filled out. His skin was bronze, healthy, instead of waxy pallor. “I’m not sure who I’m lookin’ at, either.”

Steve offered him a tremulous smile and a shaking hand. “Someone who still hopes that we’re close.”

Bucky hesitated, then let Steve take his hand, draw him in. “Missed you, you little punk,” he said, talking into Steve’s broad chest, and that was so, _so weird_.

Steve didn’t answer, just tilted Bucky’s chin up (up!) and kissed him. And that mouth, that perfect, beautiful mouth was exactly like Bucky remembered, the heated, slick feel of Steve’s tongue was identical, the silver bolts of sensation that zinged along Bucky’s nerves were utterly familiar.

“Oh,” was all Bucky could say when Steve pulled back. He leaned his forehead against Bucky’s, staring into his eyes.

“It’s me,” Steve said. “It really is.”

“Is… is it permanent?”

“So far.” Steve grinned, then reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I got you a souvenir.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, then opened it, spilling out a couple of glossy photos. The first one was Steve -- and part of Bucky was going to look back at the tiny man as being _his Steve_ \-- in a hospital gown, face screwed up as a nurse shoved a wicked-looking needle in his arm. They were apparently the same set as the nurse was backing away. Bucky flipped through them, wincing at the expression on Steve’s face as something unpleasant was happening, based on the tight, pain-filled look.

“What is this?”

“I grew almost ten inches in about six weeks,” Steve said. “It wasn’t pleasant.”

The last photo was Steve, perhaps at the end of that cycle; the hospital gown covering less than three inches of his massive thighs. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re keepin’ the outfit, right?”


End file.
